


Sordid

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [20]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Self-harm, Humiliation, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Other, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2019-09-24 06:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17095634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: You aren't perfect, but that's okay. Strade has time, and you have nowhere to go.





	Sordid

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for goretober 2016; prompt "knife"
> 
> followup to days 4 "schism" and 17 "sophistry"

He takes from you.

He claims he doesn’t—claims this is for you, all for you, clutching the back of your neck and holding you in place as he thrusts into your mouth. You grasp his hips for balance, body trembling, knees sore, a deep and throbbing pain in your legs—what’s left of them, bandages wrapped tightly around the ends of your thighs—and let him use you.

“You can take a little more, can’t you?” he teases, tangling his fingers in your hair. “I know you can. Come on. Open your mouth a little wider.”

You try not to gag when he slams his hips against your face and forces his cock further down your throat, looking up to meet his eyes in a silent and futile plea for mercy, but that just makes his smile widen.

“You love this, don’t you?” he breathes. “You love it when I give you attention. Needy little thing.”

You choke when he hits the back of your throat and your fingers scratch at his hips. You feel your stomach clenching and bile rising just as he lets up, pulling out of your mouth just in time for you to heave and retch, vomit spilling on the wood floor between you. You cough and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, the lingering, bitter taste of stomach acid making you feel sick all over again. 

“Oh, buddy,” Strade sighs, “you really made a mess.”

You freeze.

“Look at this,” he says and gestures at the puddle of pale liquid at his feet, shaking his head in disappointment. “Disgusting. I thought you were gonna be good from now on.”

“I-I-I will be,” you stammer. “I-I am. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to—!”

“But you did,” he says, eyes narrowing as a malevolent grin spreads across his face. His cock twitches in front of you and you see him getting harder as he imagines what he’s going to do to you. “And I was trying to reward you for being good. But maybe I should be punishing you instead?”

“Please no,” you whimper, watching him produce a knife as his sick smile widens. 

(He’s already taken so much from you; your hope, your happiness, your dignity, all nothing but memories from a distant past life. Your legs still ache and your stomach turns every time you remember the night you tried to run away, but you aren’t naïve enough to believe that it truly can’t get worse. 

There is still more of you to take, and you think he doesn’t intend to stop until there’s nothing left.)

“Do you know what you did?” he asks.

You tremble, voice caught in your throat.

Strade kneels beside you, clutches a fistful of your hair and yanks your face down to the puddle of vomit. The acrid stench fills your nostrils and you try to hold your breath when you feel a wave of nausea hit you. “Do you know what you did?” he repeats harshly.

“Y-yes,” you stutter.

“Say it.”

“I-I made a mess.”

“Yeah, you did,” he snarls, rubbing your cheek into the filth on the floor. “Smell that? That’s your fault. I should cut your arms off.”

“No,” you sob, “please, no, I’ll do better, I swear, I’ll do better!”

“I bet you will,” he says eagerly, running the knife over your bare back. “I bet you’ll do whatever I tell you.”

“I-I will, I promise!”

“I bet you’ll do your best for me.”

“I will!”

“I bet,” he murmurs, bending down to lick the shell of your ear, “you won’t disappoint me again.”

You close your eyes, tears running over the bile smeared on your face. “I won’t,” you whisper brokenly, “I won’t disappoint you again.”

(He takes and he takes and he takes, and only when you are truly empty does he begin to give.)

His weight lifts from you and you timidly glance up, finding him holding the knife out to you. Offering. You struggle to sit up straight, fingers slipping over the slick floor, and take it from him with unsteady hands.

(He stares into the emptiness he carved into you and he gives pieces of himself, crams them inside haphazardly and watches as it solidifies inside of you. Watches as it takes shape, all jagged edges and decay, watches it tear you apart.

Watches.

And then gives you more.)

“Punish yourself,” he says, and you don’t hesitate.

You slice across your upper arm, wincing and whimpering as blood pours thickly over your skin. You hear Strade inhale sharply, eyes glued to the wound you’ve opened. 

“More,” he orders huskily.

You obey without question, crying out as you make another incision below the first, deeper this time, hear the blade sink into muscle and soft tissue, feel it slide through you and choke back a scream.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, though it sounds more like a plea than an apology. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” You cut into yourself again, this time below your collarbones, spilling blood down your chest. 

Strade licks his lips, running a calloused hand over your wounded arm and smearing the blood all the way down to your wrist. You hear his breathing becoming labored as he licks his fingers, and then he’s on you, shoving you onto your chest on the floor and forcing your legs open. The knife clatters out of your hand in your shock, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. He’s panting now, hunched over your body and licking the blood from your skin as he lines himself up with your entrance.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stammer, and he chuckles.

“I know you are,” he coos. “But I haven’t forgiven you just yet.”

He slams in without any warning, his entire length filling you in one swift motion that robs you of breath. Your fingers scrabble across the floor as he takes your hips in a bruising grip and starts fucking you hard and fast. You can’t keep up with the pace he sets and just lay there, body flinching and jerking all on its own. You feel your blood rolling down your skin and hear it dripping on the floor like rain, and think for just one panicked moment that you’re making an even bigger mess now. 

Strade shoves your head to the floor and crawls over you, fucking into you even deeper, and then you stop thinking.

“That’s better,” he grunts. “This is what you really want, right? You want to be on all fours, legs spread and ass up for me.” 

You mumble out an answer and it isn’t good enough. He reels back to slap you hard across the back, the sound echoing off the walls. You give a pained shriek and stammer out, “Y-yes.”

“You don’t want to leave. You want to stay here. You want me to hurt you and fuck you. You love it.”

“Y-yes.”

“Say it.”

“I love i-it,” you say, words devolving into a sob. “Never want you to stop.”

“Good,” he says with a harsh laugh, the sound of his hips smacking against yours filling your head.  “Because I’m never going to.”

Strade’s hands roam your body, scratching and pinching and painful, spreading your blood over every inch of your skin. His thrusts become erratic and his words turn into low growls and then breathless laughter, but you barely notice. The only thing you understand is his body over you and in you, filling you, destroying you. 

You lay there under him and you don’t know who you are anymore.

(So you take everything he gives you because you are afraid to be nothing.)

**Author's Note:**

> this was the last fic for goretober 2016


End file.
